Masquerade
by Amos Whirly
Summary: Can someone who's already dead ever really die? [on hiatus]
1. Introduction

Cowboy Bebop

Masquerade

By Amos Whirly

Introduction 

     I fired my gun.  I wasn't shooting at anything.  The barrel pointed toward the ceiling, and my finger pulled the trigger once, twice, three times.  

     I guess I thought it would make him stop.

     But it didn't.

     He kept walking, and I never saw him again.

     I suppose he died.  He knew it would happen some day, and I think he might have known it would happen that night he came back.  He came back to say goodbye.  I see that now that he's gone.

     The same day he disappeared, ISSP found the dead body of woman on the roof of a building.  Unidentified.  Shot once in the back.  

     Out of grim curiosity I went to the morgue to see her.  She was blonde haired, blue-eyed, and absolutely beautiful.  

     It was Julia, the woman who I had saved from Red Dragon assassins only days earlier, the woman for whom Spike Spiegel would have done anything.  

     It was then that I knew Spike had to be dead.  If he were still alive, he would have been at her side.

     It made me wonder if she had died alone.  Had Spike had been there with her, or had she felt the life bleed out of her on that cold, empty roof?  I hoped for the first.  No one should die alone.  

     Even though Spike probably had. 

     After I saw Julia, I ran.  I got back to the _Bebop_ and climbed in my ship and flew away as fast as I could, with little or no explanation for Jet.  I knew even then that it was selfish.  Jet was still wounded, and with Ed and Ein gone he would have to fend for himself.  But I needed to be alone.

     I flew until my cells were almost empty, and I managed to bring in a small bounty head for just enough to recharge my ship.  Then, I kept flying.  I flew until I got home.

     Earth.

     I went back to my house, or what was left of it, and I stayed there for a while, thinking, remembering, mourning.  I watched the sun rise and set, and I watched the moon dance across the starlit sky, the lights from the colonies bright against the velvety blackness of space.

     I'd hated him.  Most of the time I argued with him or griped at him.  But on those rare occasions that we actually talked instead of yelling and shouting, I had found a friend beneath his rough exterior.  He'd always said he hated women, kids, and animals.  Ironic.  That's who he ended up living with.

     He never said much, but you could always read his eyes.  Well, his eye.  He'd lost one of them due to an accident, and it had been replaced with a mechanical substitute.  But his one good eye—I could always read his emotions in that one good eye.

     After a few days at home, I climbed back aboard my ship and headed to the _Bebop_.  I found Jet and made peace, and we tried to pick up the pieces of life.  

     A week later we did something the three of us—me, Jet, and Spike—had always fantasized about.  We brought in a 300 million wulong bounty. And since Spike hadn't been there to cause millions of wulongs worth of damage, we actually got to keep most of the payoff.  Jet and I shared a bittersweet laugh about that.

     No more bell peppers, mushrooms, and instant soba noodles for the crew of the _Bebop_.  We could actually eat a decent meal every night.

     I bought new clothes, a new gun, and spent a day at the races, but Jet did something with the money that I never expected.  He bought a plaque and fastened it to the wall in the lounge area of the ship.

     _Spike Spiegel_, it read.  _2044 – 2071. Cowboy, Partner, and Friend. _

     Since no one had found his body, there had been no burial.  Since he had no family, there had been no funeral.  It only seemed right to Jet to remember Spike, I guess.

     It's been a year now.  I still live on the _Bebop_.  Jet and I get along well enough.  We still fight, but for the most part we're able to keep the peace.  We bring in bounty heads every now and then, and the 300 million is almost gone, used up in repairing our ships and purchasing supplies.

     I stand alone in the lounge as the lights on the ship turn off for the evening, and I stare at the plaque on the wall.  I trace the letters of Spike's name with my slender fingers, and a smile comes unheeded to my lips.

     "Life isn't the same without you, idiot," I murmur softly. "But, keep dreaming, wherever you are."

     I turn around, and I walk to my quarters.

     The door shuts behind me.


	2. Chapter One: The Face in the Mirror

**Cowboy Bebop**

**Masquerade**

**By Amos Whirly**

**Chapter One: The Face in the Mirror**

     The linen sheets were cold against his stiff body.  The recycled air in the room felt cold against his face.  He struggled to open his eyes, but he found it difficult to move his eyelids.  At last his eyelashes separated, and his eyelids parted.

     White ceiling, so white it nearly blinded him.

     Everything was stiff.  He could feel his fingers and his toes, his arms and his legs, but they felt as if they had been in the cold too long.  His joints seemed rusted, ill used, and weak.

     The rest of the room was as white as the ceiling.  A closed window in the corner blocked most of the sunlight he assumed was shining outside.  There was no other furniture in the room aside from the bed on which he laid.  

     Slowly, he became aware of something hard constricting his airway.  The feeling returned to his teeth, and he realized he was biting down on some kind of plastic tube that extended down his throat.  He fought the urge to gag and kept looking around the room.

     A mirror hung on the wall next to the bed, but it was too high to reflect his image.

     He saw the nurse call button on the stand next to his bed, and he tried to reach for it, only to find that his arm refused to move.  He glared at the stubborn appendage and concentrated.  Slowly, his fingers twitched, and he reached for the button.  He had no idea how long it took him to lift his arm off of the bed, but it seemed like an eternity to him.

     _What happened to me?_ he was asking himself. _Where am I?  How did I get here?_

     He stretched for the button.

     And his fingers fell short.

     _What?_ he thought confusedly.

     He tried again, certain he was within reach of the button, but again, his fingers fell short of their target.  He let his arm droop, staring at the red button on the stand.

    With an angry grunt, he wrapped his fingers around the rail on the side of the bed and pulled.  When his body did not budge, he felt like screaming.  Determined to sit up, he tried again.  He pulled and pulled until he thought his shoulder would pop out of joint.

     Finally!  His back lifted off the bed, and after an agonizing twenty minutes, he managed to sit up.

     He grabbed the breathing tube and yanked it out, choking on the plastic cylinder as it jerked out of his throat.  He threw it away and turned to the mirror.

     A handsome face stared back at him.  Bushy dark green hair sprouted from his scalp in all directions, wild and unkempt.  He had a strong chin and a slender nose.

     But his eyes.

     He wished he had not seen his eyes.

     The left was dark brown and intense, but the right—His right eye was gone.  There was nothing there but an empty socket.

     He reached up haltingly with his working arm and touched it.

     _That's why I couldn't reach the button_, he thought. _I was farther away from it than I thought because I was only seeing with one eye._

     Gritting his teeth, he began to exercise his right arm, and after at least an hour, he was standing, still glaring into the mirror.

     _What happened?  Where am I?_

     He gave a start when the door to his room opened.  A slender redheaded woman stepped in and shrieked, dropping the tray she carried.  She backed out of the door, gawking at him.

     "You—You're awake!" she squeaked. "How?"

     He turned to her and opened his mouth to speak, but only a jumbled moan came out.  He gripped his throat in confusion.

     "Now, now," the woman hurried to his side, still overcoming her shock, "you shouldn't be up.  After all you've been through."

     _What have I been through?_ he tried to scream, but the only noise he could make was moans and mumbles. 

     The woman guided him back to the confines of his bed.

     "The doctor will be in soon to look at you."

     With an angry sound, he shook his head, refusing to go back to the bed.  The nurse glared at him and grabbed a syringe out of her pocket.  He tried to fight, to get away, but he was too slow.  The nurse jabbed the needle in his hip.  Immediately, a wave of drowsiness overwhelmed him.  The nurse somehow managed to heave his tall, lanky frame into the bed.

     Sleep was calling to him.

     _No!  You can't sleep!  Don't sleep!  You have to find out where you are!  You have to find out what happened!  You have to get back to the—_ he stopped. _Back to the what?  Back to where?_

     As he lay in the bed with sleep overcoming his senses, a terrible empty feeling surged through him.

     He had seen his face in the mirror and had accepted without question that it was his.  But he had no memory of it.

     _Where am I?_ his mind began to panic_. How did I get here?  Is this a hospital?  Why?_

     He was beginning to realize that he had no memory of anything.

     _Who am I?_


	3. Chapter Two: Picking Up the Pieces

**Cowboy Bebop**

**Masquerade**

**By Amos Whirly**

**Chapter Two: Picking Up the Pieces**

     He lay in the bed, drowsy but unable to sleep.  The nurse had given him a sedative of some kind, but if it had been intended to put him to sleep, it had not worked.  He lay staring at the blinding ceiling with his one functioning eye, desperately trying not to panic.  

     The sedative hadn't even worked on his nerves.

     _I hate hospitals_, he thought. _But why?  And why can't I talk?  What's wrong with my voice?  And why can't I move?  What happened to me?_

     The door opened, and an overweight man in a white lab coat that was far too small for him stepped into the hospital room.  

     "Good morning, Mr. Doe," the man smiled brightly. "My name is Dr. Murphy, and I've been keeping tabs on you since you came to us."

     He opened his mouth to speak, but again, no sound came out.

     "Hold on," Murphy dug around in the pocket of his lab coat. "Here."

     Murphy handed a strange device to him.

     "It's a vocal chord amplifier," Murphy explained. "It'll help you talk, and it will eventually get your vocal chords back in working order."

     He set the amplifier against his throat.

     "Where am I?" he said.

     His voice had a mechanical hum to it, but at least the words were intelligible.

     "St. Alpheus of Mars Hospital."

     "St. Alpheus?"

     "Yes."

     "That's for terminal cases."

     "Yes.  Well, Mr. Doe, we never expected you to wake up."

     "Mr. Doe?" 

     "Yes, I'd call you by your real name, but no one seems to know what it is.  Speaking of which, we're going to need some information about you.  By the way, what _is_ your name?"

     "I—I don't know."

     "Hm," Murphy mumbled. "I was afraid of that.  According to your file, you had a number of serious injuries when you first arrived here."

     "When?"

     "Oh, about a year ago," Murphy smiled. "That's why you can't talk or move.  All your muscle tissue has atrophied." 

     "How?"

     "When you don't use your muscles, they tend to—"

     "No.  How did I get injured?"

     "You don't know?"

     "No.  I don't remember anything."

     "Well, that's not good," Murphy made a note on his chart.

     "What about my eye?  Is that one of the injuries?"

     "No, actually.  Your right eye was cybernetic, and due to the seriousness of your injuries, most of your body systems starting shutting down.  The eye was designed to function as long as your body functioned.  When you started dying, it died.  So we removed it."

     "I see."

     "Probably not very well, though, huh?" Murphy laughed raucously.

     He stopped when his patient did not join him.

     "Sorry," he said. "Little joke."

     "It wasn't funny."

     "I got that," Murphy made a notation on his chart. "Sir, all we know is that some guy found you in the wreck of a building and brought you here.  A lot of people died that night.  You were just about the only one who came in from that wreck that actually survived."

     "How many were there?"

     "At least fifty or sixty," Murphy shrugged. "The building blew up.  Some folks say it was a syndicate coup or something.  I don't know.  That was a bloody week."

     Murphy kept rambling, but his patient fell silent, trying to remember something—anything.

     "So can I get out of here?" he finally asked.

     "Sure," Murphy made another note. "You're fit as a fiddle as far as I can tell.  I mean, you'll need a week or so of rehab to get your muscles to working again, but the process doesn't take very long anymore.  Not with the new techniques they developed four months ago." 

     "Great," his voice held no excitement.

* * *

     Dr. Murphy's week became three days as his amnesiac patient responded well to the treatment.  Soon, he was walking around and moving as if he had never been in a hospital bed in his life.  His voice responded well to the treatment also, but his memory, however, was completely gone.

     He sat alone in the gym of the rehabilitation wing, stretching his arms and legs out.  For some reason, it felt familiar.

     "Mr. John Doe?" a whiny voice interrupted him.

     He turned and glared at the skinny woman in the doorway.  Her glasses were at least an inch think, and her nose took up most of her reddened face.

     "Are you Mr. John Doe?  Dr. Murphy said Mr. John Doe was practicing in the gymnasium area." She pushed her glasses up. "Since you are the only person in this facility, I therefore assume you are Mr. John Doe."

     "Well that's what they're calling me," he answered darkly.

     "Yes, yes, yes," the woman ambled in on legs like toothpicks. "Total loss of memory.  Ocular inhibition.  No sense of humor."

     "What?"

     "Apologies," the woman pushed her glasses up again. "I was just reading Dr. Murphy's notes." She gave a snort of laughter. "No sense of humor!  That is amusing!  Ha-ha!  Ha-ha!"

     She pushed her glasses up once more and turned to him.

     "My name is Dr. Gertrude Hetzendorf.  I am with social services.  I am here to place you in a housing facility that will provide adequate solutions to your present disabilities."

     "My present disabilities?"

     "You are missing an eye, Mr. Doe," Hetzendorf pointed out. "That is qualified as an ocular inhibition.  I am here to assure you will be situated in a housing development specialized for the optically challenged."

     He rolled his eyes and returned to his stretching, saying, "I don't need your help."

     "Once you are settled, you will be able to see an ophthalmologist of highest quality who will fit you for a new cybernetic optical device."

     "I don't have any money."

     "Well, that is a definite hindrance as your medical bills for your extended stay at St. Alpheus are insurmountable at best."

     "Just buzz off, lady.  I don't need your help."

     "Very well," Hetzendorf signed a sheet of paper and handed it to him.

     "What's this?"

     "Your discharge," she nodded sharply. "You are hereby released from St. Alpheus, with the knowledge that you have accumulated a rather substantial amount of fees, fines, taxes, and other such invoices as government shall dictate."

     "Fine," he snatched the paper out of her hand.

     "You are expected to vacate the premises of St. Alpheus by noon today," Hetzendorf said. "Thank you for choosing St. Alpheus for your medical needs.  I hope you will consider us again when your personal well-being is in jeopardy."

     She turned and ambled out of the room.

     He watched her go and rolled his eyes, glancing at the paper.  He let a curse escape his lips at the multitude of digits on the final tally of his medical expenses.

     "You've got to be kidding," he mumbled. "There's no way I can pay that.  Unless I remember I'm a wealthy billionaire or something."

     He crumpled up the paper and shoved it in his back pocket, slowly returning to retrieve his spare set of clothes.

* * *

     He sighed heavily and pushed the creaky, broken door open.  The light from the hallway spilled over the dirty carpet and stained wallpaper of his "new" apartment.

     "A few scratches," he grumbled, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him, "a little smelly, a dead roach or two—oh well.  No questions asked."

     He turned the light on and looked around.

     A twin bed sat in the corner, looking suspiciously like an army cot.  A dilapidated chest of drawers built into the far wall seemed to be infested with termites.  An old black-and-white news monitor sat in the corner.  The bathroom was small but serviceable, and the little closet in the corner was more like a cave.

     He sat down on the bed and stared at the mirror across from him.

     "I've got to find a patch or something," he commented, poking the bottom lid of his empty eye socket.

     With a sigh, he stood and turned the monitor on.  It flared to life with the sound of crackling circuits, and the screen projected the image of a black man in a western outfit.  

     "Shucks, howdy!" the man on the television shouted. 

     The rest of his speech was garbled by the malfunctioning volume chip on the monitor.

     A blonde woman also appeared on the screen, saying something excitedly.  The screen flashed images of some rather unscrupulous characters along with reward amounts listed below them.

     "What is this?" he mumbled, leaning closer to the screen.

     The volume kicked in at that exact moment, blaring stridently in his face.  He fell backward and cracked the back of his head on the wall.  The sheet rock gave out at the contact, and his entire upper body crashed through the wall!

     He lay dazed for a moment, half his body laying in a pile of rubble, listening to the monitor that continued to talk.

     "Big Shot," he muttered. "Big Shot.  That's what it's called."

     He sat up in time to see the end credits of the show.

     "Big Shot," he mumbled again. "It's a show for cowboys, for bounty hunters.  Why?  Why do I—?"

     *_The metal floor felt cold beneath his bare feet as he ran through his stretching routines in the low-gravity chamber at the front of the ship.  Perspiration beaded on his face as he focused on the movement of his muscles._

_     A voice broke into his concentration, a gruff, no-nonsense kind of voice._

_     An image—a man with a beard and a blowtorch._

     Bell peppers and beef--?* 

     The bed collapsed.

     As it fell, it took him and the rest of the wall with him.  He lay still in the mess, trying to keep his mind focused on the images.  But they were fleeting.  Soon, everything he had seen was gone—awash in the muddled depths of his shattered mind.

     "It was cold," he mumbled. "I could see stars.  _Stars_.  That's it."

     He struggled to his feet, grabbed his bag of spare clothes, and headed for the door.  


	4. Chapter Three: Enter the Raven

**Masquerade**

**Cowboy Bebop **

**By Amos Whirly**

**Chapter Three:  Enter the Raven**

     The wind rustled through his dark green hair as he walked quickly toward the spaceport in Tharsis City.  The soles of his shoes clapped hollowly on the sidewalks, and the vehicles that sped past him thrummed like huge bumblebees.

     He stopped as a particularly large tanker truck squealed dangerously around a corner, its tires screeching in protest as the heavy rig strained to obey its driver's command.  The breeze it generated caused his black slacks and shirt to flap around his slender frame.

     He waited for the street to clear, and he crossed to the spaceport's main entrance.  As he stepped into the enormous building, he stopped in the lobby and looked upward.  Multiple levels towered above him.  People scurried all around him.  

     And the familiar whine of space drives caused all the glass to quiver.

     He swallowed hard and started walking.  He walked until he reached the gate admittance area.  He ignored the apprehension that had risen in the back of his throat as the guards checked him for weapons.  Though they gave his empty eye socket a curious glance, they allowed him to enter.  

     _Glad they didn't find anything_, he thought absently to himself.

     For hours, he wandered all over the port, staring at the incoming and outgoing ships.  He watched them land.  He watched them take off and soar into the clear blue of the generated atmosphere.

     It was all familiar.  

     The squeal of the engines – the smell of the jet fuel – the storm of air currents around the wings – the image of clouds swirling like something tangible around the nose cone – it was all hauntingly familiar.

     He clenched his fist as a small red jet launched into the sky.  He watched it barrel roll and bank into the clouds.

     "Why can't I remember?" he muttered, pounding his fist gently on the viewing glass that separated the port from the landing area. 

     He let his fist fall to his side, and he turned, walking slowly toward the guard station.  The sun had already faded from view, and the moons were shining brightly against the quickly darkening sky.  

     _I've been here long enough_, he thought. _Just go back and sleep.  Maybe it'll come to you_.

     The guards nodded at him as he exited the gate area.

     _Wait a second_, he suddenly stopped, a strange sensation washing over him like an icy wind. _I don't have a gun.  Why was I nervous when the guards were checking me?_ He glanced at the guards who were staring openly at him. 

     He turned away and started walking toward the street.

     _Would I even know how to use a gun?_ he wondered. _Maybe I used to carry one – before I lost my memory.  Maybe that's why I was so sure the guards wouldn't let me in._

     He shook his head and pushed the glass doors open, stepping outside into the cool night air.

     _It's nothing_, his mind told him. _You're just imagining things.  Grasping at straws.  Desperate for anything that can tell you who you are.  _He snorted. _Who I was._

      He walked down the sidewalk, ignoring the stares and pointed fingers from the people around him.  As he ambled toward his apartment, he glanced at the sky, admiring the stars that sparkled in the darkness.

     _I've seen them before_, he thought to himself. _I was closer than this.  But were they closer to me or was I closer to them?_

     He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, just staring.

     A footstep sounded behind him.

     Slowly, he turned to face a tall man with dark hair and hidden eyes.  He stood partially in the shadow cast by a lamppost.  Surrounding him were at least a dozen burly men.

     A foreign sensation surged through his veins like a bolt of lightning.

     "Awfully late to be out walking around alone," the man in the lead commented with a nod to his men.

     A chorus of dark chuckles burst from the men's throats as they surrounded the green-haired man in the darkness of the street.

     "This is going to be easy," one of them said. "He's only got one eye!"

     His heart was pounding against his ribcage, but for some reason he felt calm.  A sense of peace descended over his mind and heart even as the crowd of men encompassed him.

     _What's wrong with me? _he thought. _These guys are going to kick my butt._

     One of the men started forward.

     _No_, his mind jolted. _They won't._

     The ruffian lunged, but his victim ducked under the attack.

     _Kick_, he thought.

     He lashed out with his right leg as the man charged and drove his heel into the man's midsection.  He grabbed the man's collar and hurled him into an alleyway.  He punched another attacker in the nose, kicked a second in the back of the knee, and grabbed the shoulders of a fourth, flipping him head-over-heels into a wall.  

     The lead man ran at him like a raging bull, but he snapped the palm of his hand into the man's face.  The attacker stumbled backward, and he drove the man into the wall with his foot.

     He stood there, his foot under his attacker's chin, the men scattered around him.

     "Not bad," the leader laughed, sounding strangled. "Not bad at all.  What's your name?"

     "I don't know my name."

     "An orphan?"

     "Amnesia."

     "Well, people call me Darkmoon.  Kale Darkmoon."

     "Are you Indian?"

     "Partially," Darkmoon smirked. "My ancestors grew up on the prairies of Earth before the Gate was constructed, if that's what you're asking."

     "Why are you telling me this?"

     Slowly, he let his foot drop.

     "Mostly because I've never met anyone who could take my boys down so fast without even breaking a sweat," Darkmoon gestured to the thugs who lay groaning on the sidewalk. "You want a job?"

     "Huh?"

     "A job.  You know.  Where you work for me?"

     "Doing what?"

     "This and that."

     "I won't attack people on the streets."

     "That's fine," he shrugged. "We were low on cash at the moment, and the men thought you might have something on you."

     "Your men aren't very smart, then."

     "But you are, aren't you?  Come on.  A few quick jobs, and we're all rich.  If we can avoid the cowboys, that is."

     "Cowboys?"

     "Bounty hunters."

     "I don't know."

     "Hey," Darkmoon surged forward and set a hand on his shoulder, "why don't you just hang with us until you remember something.  No strings attached.  And I'll buy you an eye patch."

     "You will?"

     "Yeah.  Looking at that empty socket of yours is just freaky."

     "Thanks."

     "What do you say?  Are you in?"

     Darkmoon extended his hand.

     "Why not?" he shook Darkmoon's hand.

     "Excellent," Darkmoon rejoiced. "But you need a name, my friend."

     "People have been calling me 'John Doe.'"

     "I hate that name.  You need something descriptive."

     "I won't answer to 'One-Eye.'"

     "For not knowing anything about yourself, you sure have opinions, don't you?  But, no, I wouldn't call you that. "

     A sudden flurry above them drew their gazes to the sky.  A black bird cawed noisily at them from the top of a nearby building.  It flapped its wings wildly and flew out of sight.

     "How about 'Raven'?"

     "Raven?" 

     "Yeah.  _The_ Raven.  Would that work for you?"

     He looked at the sky and then back at his hands.

     "Yeah."

     "Then, the Raven it is," Darkmoon shook his hand again. "Welcome to the family.  We'll be rich before you know it with you on our side."

     He smiled in return and started helping the other men to their feet.

     _The Raven_, he thought to himself. _I could grow to like that._

     He patted a man on the back and accepted another handshake from one of the thugs.

     _So why does this feel all wrong?_


	5. Chapter Four: Wish You Were Here

**"Masquerade"**

**Cowboy Bebop**

**By Amos Whirly**

**Chapter Four: Wish You Were Here**

     She sat at the glass table, leaning forward and sipping her chocolate milkshake.  Her tall boots were crossed at the ankle under the table, the leather squeaking occasionally.  Her short leather skirt and sliming white silk blouse added to her seductive appearance without making her stand out in the crowd.

     Her red lips curled in a smile as she tapped her dark-tinted glasses with a gloved index finger.  The lenses rotated on silent gears, focusing on a man across the restaurant's main floor.

     Marlow Adirondack, bounty head of the month.  His hair was carrot red and curly, and his brown eyes were beady and narrow.  His nose was long and crooked, and his mouth hung open in a perpetual lopsided grin. He held a smoking cigar in one hand and a champagne glass filled with dark, bubbling liquid in the other.

     "Talk about a prize," the woman muttered into her bracelet.

     "He's worth 10-mil, Faye," her earring vibrated with Jet's deep voice. "Don't you spook him now."

     "Will you just calm down?" she sipped her milkshake. "He's all the way across the room.  What could possibly happen?"

     "Good afternoon, ma'am," a waiter suddenly appeared to her right, bearing a pitcher of water. "May I refill your water glass?"

     "But I haven't got any water," Faye replied sharply.

     "That's because I haven't given it to you yet," the waiter shifted nervously setting a glass on her table and pour icy water into it. "The water here is really—"

     "Would you go away, please?"

     "Could I have your number?"

     "What?  Hey!" 

     The waiter was not watching and had filled her glass past the brim.  The icy liquid spilled into her lap and over the front of her shirt, splashing on her face.  The instant the water hit her glasses, they short-circuited and began to spark wildly.  With a high-pitched squeal, she ripped them off and jumped back.  The glasses landed in the puddle of water on the table and exploded.

     She could hear Jet mouthing off in her earring.

     But she looked up in time to see Adirondack stand and slowly head for the back of the room. 

     She cursed out loud and pushed past the waiter who was blubbering apologies.  Adirondack spotted her instantly and dashed madly toward the kitchen.

     "Jet," she sat into her bracelet, "he's running!"

     "No, I wonder what would have made him do that."

     "Just shut up and chase him, you moron!" 

     She burst into the kitchen to hear all the cooks wailing and screaming as Adirondack darted toward the exit in the back.  Muttering angrily, Faye ran after him.

     She yelped as her clunky black boots slipping on a wet patch on the tiled floor.  Stumbling, she crashed into a rack of pastries and hit the tile hard, éclairs raining down on her like a monsoon.  With an enraged shout, she scrambled to her feet and kept running.  She burst out of the kitchen's back door and into an alley.

     It was night time on Ganymede.  The sky was cold and dark and threatening to spill.  She grabbed her gun out of the back of her skirt and slowly crept through the alley. 

     Thunder rumbled overhead, and the rain came, hammering on the dirty alley floor and soaking her to the bone.   The air chilled almost instantly, and her breath billowed out of her mouth like white clouds.  After a quick but thorough search of the alley, she lowered her gun.

     "Jet," she spoke into the bracelet, "he's gone."

     Jet said something sarcastic in return, but she did not hear it.  She sensed his presence behind her before she saw him.   Out of instinct rather than common sense, she whirled around, bringing her gun up.

     Adirondack was ready.  He slammed his hand into her elbow, and she dropped the gun.  It skittered across the alley floor.  But she was able to punch him squarely in the face.  He fell back against the alley wall, but he bounced back and kicked her hard.  She flew backward into the opposite wall, and he followed through with a punch that would have broken her jaw if she had not avoided it.  He howled in pain as his fist connected with the brick wall, but that did not stop him from driving his knee into her side.  She fell sideways and crashed into a trashcan. 

     Furious she kicked him in the stomach and stood up, turning a perfect roundhouse kick intending to knock him senseless.

     Adirondack was quicker than she had anticipated.

     He snatched her ankle out of the air and smirked evilly at her. 

     She moved to slug him, but he grabbed her hand and wrenched her shoulder brutally.  Faye swore she heard bones snapping.  He turned fluidly, slamming his elbow into the back of her knee and flinging her into the wall again.  She fell in a large puddle of dirty water and scrambled to her feet.  She stopped, though, as he snatched her gun from the dirty floor and aimed at her head.

     "Stupid cowboy," he snarled and stopped as a hand tapped on his shoulder. 

     He turned, and a metallic fist slammed into his face.  Adirondack swayed for a moment before falling face first into a mud puddle.

     Faye leaned on the wall as Jet emerged from the shadows, his bearded face grim and his blue eyes accusatory. 

     "What?" she snapped, green sparks in her emerald eyes.

     "I told you not to spook him!" Jet countered, kneeling and cuffing Adirondack's wrists behind his back.

     "I didn't," Faye argued. "It was that stupid waiter.  And those stupid glasses you insisted I wear.  If they'd have been waterproof—"

     "Oh, no, you're not blaming this one on me, Faye."

     "Of course, I am, Jet," she snarled. "Because it's your fault."

     Jet rolled his eyes and hauled Adirondack to his feet.  Then, he turned to look at the prim woman standing in the mud puddle.  She was dirty from head to toe, scrapes and scratches biting up her arms and legs.

     "Are you all right?" he asked more gently. 

     "Like you care," Faye brushed past him. "You got your bounty, Jet.  I'm going back to the _Bebop_."

     Jet sighed hugely as she went, knowing better than to stop her. 

     "Come on, Marlow," he dragged the man toward the street.  "Dinner's in a couple of hours, and you're buying."

* * *

     The hot water felt good on her scratched and bruised limbs.  The steam relaxed her muscles and coaxed the tightness out of her joints. 

     "I'm in the wrong line of work," she muttered to the showerhead. "At this rate, I'll be an old woman by 30."  

     She laughed to herself.

     "I used to think 30 was old," she leaned against the shower wall, feeling the hot water pour down her back. "It's not that old anymore, I guess."

     She finished washing and stepped from the shower.  After drying herself off and pulling on a pair of yellow cotton pajamas, she wrapped her shoulder-length hair in a towel and regarded herself in the mirror.

     With a sigh, she took a jar of ointment and a roll of gauze from the medicine cabinet and walked to the living area of the ship.  She spent the next hour wrapping her cuts.  

     The door to the ship banged, and Jet stepped in.

     "Paid up?" she shouted up at him.

     "Yeah," he answered, shutting the door behind him and descending the stairs.  

     He watched her as she wrapped a particularly deep gash on her leg.

     "I'm sorry about earlier," he said quietly.

     "Don't be," she answered. "It was my fault.  I should have shot the waiter."

     Jet chuckled.

     "What did he want anyway?"

     "My number."

     "I see."

     Jet chuckled to himself again and disappeared into the galley to cook something for supper.  Faye finished treating her injuries and returned the items to the medicine cabinet.

     She sat down on the couch with a book to wait until the meal was ready, but she could not read.   Her eyes were drawn inexplicably to the plaque on the wall. 

     _Spike_, she thought. _If you had been there—_she sighed. _If you had been there, you would have taken that creep out without a second thought._

     She glanced at her scraped hands.

     _You probably would have laughed at me, sitting in a mud puddle like that.  Big jerk._

     She set the book on the table and stared at the plaque.

     "I miss you, Spike," she said aloud. 

     "Dinner!" Jet's big voice boomed from the galley. 

     Faye started for a moment, but she stood quietly and walked to where Jet had two plates prepared.  She took her plate from him with a smile and returned to the couch.

     "Who were you talking to out here?" Jet asked as he chewed on a bean sprout.

     "Nothing," Faye answered softly. "Just thinking about Spike."

     Jet stopped chewing for a moment.

     "Yeah," he said with a laugh, "Spike would have collared that creep.  But he would have burned the restaurant down too."

     "I suppose you're right," Faye smiled sadly. 

     "Spike's better off where he is, Faye," Jet swallowed another mouthful, "no matter how much we wish he were here."

     "How do you know?"

     "Just do."

     "Or you just don't think about it."

     Jet did not answer.  He only chewed his bean sprouts.  

     "That's what I thought."     


End file.
